


I Got Ways

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, five and a bonus scene, honestly these boys i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: “Catch me when I fall?” Stiles whispers, shaking as pain blooms in his chest. His ribs ache with every breath.Peter wraps his arms around him without hesitation. “Always, my love."[The Hale Flame.]
Relationships: Chris Argent/Derek Hale, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742245
Comments: 12
Kudos: 207





	I Got Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Hello Hello, my beautiful friends! My goodness, you look absolutely amazing today! What is your secret? No, wait, don't tell me. It's all natural, I can tell. You gorgeous ray of sunshine, thank you for being here!
> 
> I'm so sorry for the unexpected hiatus. I'm honestly not sure what kept me away for so long. I've been working on several different fics at the same time (oh, maybe that's why..) and writer's block suddenly spammed my brain.
> 
> But I am here! I am still writing! And I still love you all very much! 
> 
> I tried my hand at a five-and-one, though it came out as more of a five-and-a-bonus-scene. So this is Five Times that Stiles is the Hale Flame (And One Bonus Scene Where He Doesn't Have to Be). Enjoy, my friends!!

i.  
“Catch me when I fall?” Stiles whispers, shaking as pain blooms in his chest. His ribs ache with every breath, and his grip on his bat loosens. The runed object slips from his fingers and clatters only once before it disappears entirely—into whatever ether Stiles usually pulls it from when he needs it. 

Peter, back pressed to the spark's as he eyes the hissing creatures surrounding them, turns and wraps his arms around him without hesitation. “Always, my love,” he says against the shell of the younger man's ear.

Stiles takes a few deep, steadying breaths, then raises his arms, palms faced outward on either side of him. “Close your eyes,” he begs, and Peter presses his face into the nape of Stiles's neck, squeezing his eyes shut as fire bursts from the younger man's hands.

The werewolf grits his teeth as screams erupt around them, dissipating and leaving behind only the roar of flames. He tightens his grip on the spark, feels Stiles begin to sag against him. And when the waves of heat finally end, Peter opens his eyes and catches the younger man like he promised, holding him tightly as Stiles struggles for breath.

“Breathe,” Peter pleads, gaze snapping up as he hears the pounding of feet approach. Both the Hale and the McCall packs enter into the clearing, halting in confusion and surprise. The ground and the trees surrounding Peter and Stiles are all but ash, the two standing on the only patch of green in the burnt area. “Please breathe, Stiles.”

Peter falls to his knees with a pained grunt, his healing injuries too much to bear with the weight of his mate in his arms. Derek is the only one to approach, gently taking a knee beside the two as Peter growls warningly. 

“It's okay,” the Alpha says, flashing his eyes as more of a comfort than a command. “Let me help him, Peter.”

He doesn't loosen his hold on the spark, but Peter allows Derek to reach forward and string his fingers through Stiles's hair. Black veins slither up the Alpha's arm, several moments passing before Stiles's breathing slows and the lines between his eyebrows smooth out. The spark's eyes open, gaze swiveling before landing on Peter.

“Still alive?” he whispers, eyelids drooping as consciousness fades.

Peter tightens his arms around the young man despite the throbbing ache in his body, pressing his lips to Stiles's temple as he goes limp. “Still alive, my love,” he promises.

ii.  
“What he did was reckless. Completely thoughtless.”

“He could have killed us all!”

“The Council should hear of this.”

“ _Enough_!” Scott yells, his voice booming in the wooded area and quieting the overlapping rants. Several pairs of glowing eyes center on him, and he straightens his stance, pushing his shoulders back and raising his chin. He is the Alpha of this territory, and he has full authority over any visiting packs. “You weren't called here for a witch hunt. Emissary Stilinski is not a threat. He was asked to come here to help, the same as you.”

“He isn't a threat to _you_. Your pack is aligned with the Hales.”

“As are yours,” Scott counters quickly, baring his teeth and flashing his eyes. “Stiles saved _all_ of us today. You should be thanking him, not building a pyre.”

“How do we know this wasn't his doing to begin with?” another Alpha asks. “What if the _Hale Flame_ summoned the creatures here so that he might look like a hero?”

Scott doesn't recognize some of the packs that came to help. He remembers at least one is from somewhere up north near the Canadian border. Derek did most of the asking to bring them here—and he's almost certain they came out of obligation rather than sincerity. “And what would he have to gain from doing that? Putting allies in danger?”

“Establishment,” the same werewolf argues loudly, red eyes glowing. “Attention. Hell, he could be taking money from hunters to off us.”

A low growl from Scott's left has everyone flinching and taking a step back. Derek steps up beside the younger man and glowers at the group. “If you'd like to accuse my emissary of being a mercenary, you had better tread lightly, Samuel. Such implications are to be brought to the attention of the accused's Alpha. You know the laws.” The 'wolf, Samuel, makes a displeased noise deep in his throat but says nothing else. “Very well. I'll do you all the courtesy of forgetting to mention this particular conversation to Emissary Stilinski's mate, Peter Hale.”

The group has the decency to look uncomfortable, glancing around nervously like Peter might be lurking nearby. They know the reputation of the _Hale Left Hand_. 

“Your help in this matter has been appreciated,” Scott says. “I owe each of you a debt for answering our call when we needed help. You're welcome to stay the night, eat, and rest before your travels tomorrow.”

His gratitude is sincere. And his words of dismissal are final. No one says anything more as they turn and slink off into the woods towards the guest houses that line Scott's property. It's been a long week tracking down and dealing with these creatures. The death tole is in the dozens, and the relief of everything being over with is coupled with the grief of loss, as well as the worry over those who were injured.

Stiles, most especially.

“Do you want to come in?” Scott asks, gesturing towards his home. Kira sits on the porch, hand smoothing out the shirt stretched over her swollen stomach. Really, the younger man just wants to curl up with his mate in their bed and sleep until the aftermath has been dealt with, but the instincts and manners his mother instilled in him when he was younger have him offering the other Alpha the common courtesy. 

“Thank you, but I'd like to go check on my pack,” Derek says with a nod and a quirk of his lips. It's the closest to a smile he's been able to get with the younger man. They still aren't on the best of terms because of their history, but they've both grown enough to try again and give their alliance a decent attempt.

Scott nods and sighs, looking off in the direction that the packs had scattered. “Do they really still call him that?” He turns back towards the other man, furrowing his brows when Derek merely stares at him. “The _Hale Flame_.”

Derek shrugs. “Not to his face.”

“What do they call him to his face?”

“Usually _that dude with the magic_.”

Scott laughs at that. “I don't remember you being this funny.”

Derek offers a genuine smile, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting on his feet. “I'll text you when Stiles wakes up.”

“Thanks, man.” Scott offers a hand, which Derek takes without hesitation. “Seriously. For everything.”

Derek squeezes the hand in his once before letting go and heading off in the direction of their own guest house, tugging gently at the bonds of his sleeping pack to assure himself of their safety.

iii.  
Derek finds Boyd, Erica, and Isaac on the living room couch, curled into one another and holding on tightly even in sleep. Their wounds are mostly healed, and the Alpha takes care to scent each of them, drawing any lingering pain before covering them with the blanket draped over the back of the couch. 

Chris sits in an armchair nearby, watchful gaze bright even in the darkness. Derek can smell the wound in the hunter's side, sour with infection, and he drops to his knees between the man's legs to inspect it. 

“It isn't deep,” Chris says, though his breathing is ragged. He makes no noise as Derek prods at the wound anyway. 

“It needs stitches,” the younger man says with a frown, black veins slithering up his arm. 

The tension in Chris's shoulders eases, and he releases a gust of air in relief. “I'll take care of it. You need to check on Stiles and Peter.”

Derek nods, making no move to leave as Chris gingerly leans forward and gently presses their lips together. After a few moments, the hunter pushes on the younger man's shoulder, and Derek stands, following the sound of heartbeats to a bedroom on the second floor. 

The door is open, and he finds Peter, back pressed to the headboard of the bed, with Stiles sleeping soundly beside him. Peter strokes the young Spark's hair with one hand, the other holding a book open, though his eyes stare right through it. 

Derek stops at the foot of the bed. “How is he?”

His uncle purses his lips. “Weak,” he sighs, closing the book and setting it to the side. “He'll be asleep for most of the day tomorrow, I imagine.”

Derek nods, venturing to sit on the end of the bed. He watches his emissary's chest rise and fall with each labored breath, listens to every slow beat of his heart. “The other packs will be leaving in the morning.”

Peter's eyes flash, and he bares his teeth slightly. “I assume they were less than pleased with how the situation ended.”

“They thought he was going to kill them.”

“Would it have been a loss if he had?”

“Peter.”

The older man shrugs with indifference. “They blame him when he saves them. They'd blame him if he did nothing. He'll never find favor, no matter what he does. To them, he will always be The _Hale Flame_.” He levels Derek with a knowing look. “ _Our_ flame.”

Derek doesn't disagree. “They're afraid of him.”

“As they should be,” Peter says lightly, though his words are heavy with the threat.

Derek doesn't disagree with that, either.

iv.  
“I don't like when people call you that,” Scott says, frowning before taking a bite of his burger. Stiles clenches his jaw as grease drips from it, still not over the incident of the diner that served human remains. He's stuck mostly to club sandwiches since then. 

“Call me what?” he asks absently, shoving a curly fry into his mouth. 

He knows what.

“You know what,” Scott accuses around a mouthful of burger. “The _Hale Flame_.” He swallows and scrunches his nose. “I don't like it.”

Stiles hums and chews on the straw of his milkshake. When he was younger, he might have taken offense to the words. But he and Scott were stupid back then—amped up on teenage hormones and way too much Mountain Dew.

“What don't you like about it?” he asks—and fuck if that doesn't make him sound like a goddamn adult. Immaturity can suck his dick.

Scott puts his burger down and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I don't know, man. Just...” He huffs in frustration and glares at his clenched fists. “You used to be _Stiles_. Just Stiles. The kid who would eat bugs on the playground as a dare.”

“I only did that once.”

“Twice,” Scott counters quickly, continuing on as if the interruption didn't happen. “You were my best friend and my brother, and I know you still are.” He glances up then, hesitation on his face like he's expecting Stiles to refute the statement. Sure, their relationship isn't what it used to be—it probably never will be again. But they're on the mend. “But you're also this badass magic-user now. Seriously, dude, you kick major butt.”

Stiles grins. There's his Scotty. “I'm not the only one who's changed, man. You're out here living the werewolf dream. Got your own pack now. And Kira's pregnant again, right?”

Scott sighs wearily. “Twins.”

“We grew up, Scotty.” Stiles shrugs, crunching into a pickle spear. “We're big, bad adults now. We have responsibilities.” His shoulders drop slightly, and he averts his gaze. “And sometimes they can be really shitty.”

Scott is quiet for a long moment. “Is that why we're hiding out?”

Stiles resists the urge to laugh. Because only Scott truly gets him—always has. “What makes you think we're hiding?”

The young Alpha rolls his eyes and smiles crookedly, gesturing to Stiles's styrofoam cup. “You only get chocolate shakes when something is bothering you.”

Stiles chuckles, and the noise is strained. “I really missed you, dude.”

Scott smiles genuinely, fist-bumping the young spark and picking up his burger again. “Missed you, too, man.” He takes a large bite, and Stiles has to look away. “So are you hiding from Peter?”

Stiles groans, rubbing at his face tiredly. “He's so pissed. I don't feel like fighting with him yet.”

The young Alpha nods while he chews. “Yeah, fighting sucks.” He dunks a few fries into Stiles's shake and shoves them in his mouth. “Make-up sex is awesome, though.”

Stiles laughs, and the noise loosens his nerves a little. “Hell yeah, it is.”

They eat in silence for a while longer before Scott speaks again. “Are you sure you're happy? Being the Hale emissary, and all?”

The young spark sucks down the last of his shake, raising an eyebrow. “You offering me a job, Scotty? I don't think Marin will appreciate that.”

“Dude, shut up,” Scott laughs, throwing a fry at him. “You know you always have a place in the McCall pack.”

“I know.” Stiles sits back, wiping his hands on a napkin and smiling at the waitress who takes their empty plates. “I'm good. And not just because of Peter or the Nemeton. Beacon Hills just...feels like the right place to be.”

Scott sits back in his chair, mirroring his friend as he studies him. “You know, I take it back,” he says, one corner of his mouth quirking. “I think the name suits you.”

Stiles smiles, looking towards the window as Peter's car pulls up to the diner. “Guess my ride's here.”

Scott offers a sympathetic look. “Good luck, dude.”

“'Luck' is my middle name,” the spark says unconvincingly as he stands.

Scott follows suit, donning a fake confused look as he says, “I could have sworn it was 'Lucas.'”

They laugh as they hug, patting each other on the back like it won't be months before they're able to see one another again. Being separated by pack responsibility really sucks sometimes. 

“See you 'round,” Scott says as light-heartedly as he can muster.

“Like a record,” Stiles adds, waving as he heads towards the door and dreading the long drive home. 

v.  
Peter storms into the apartment he and Stiles have shared for several months, the young spark following behind with determined steps of his own. 

“So you'd have me watch while an entire town is slaughtered? Stand by when I can do something to prevent it?” Stiles demands, hands gesturing wildly behind the other man's back. He can feel heat pooling into his fingertips, and he grits his teeth as his chest tightens. _Not now; Please not now._

Peter whirls on the younger man with blazing blue eyes, taking long strides back across the room until they are nearly toe-to-toe. Stiles, for his part, doesn't back away, makes himself stand his ground despite the quaking in his limbs from holding back. _Hold back; Hold back._

“I would have you watch the world fall to ash, if it meant keeping you alive,” Peter confesses, his tone full of venom despite the sentiment of the words. “You can't just throw yourself into danger at every turn. It's irresponsible.”

“Irresponsible?” Stiles repeats incredulously, stepping around the man and pacing the expanse of the living room as he feels his control slipping, as he quickly hides his heartbeat to keep Peter from sensing the impending danger the young man is about to become. “It's 'irresponsible' to save people, now? It's 'irresponsible' to prevent disaster and chaos from raining down on innocents who have no clue our world even exists?” He sucks in a breath and swallows when his throat seizes. 

“It is when the consequence of saving people becomes sacrifice,” Peter argues, sharp eyes watching the younger man continue to pace. “Giving up your life to help others defeats the purpose of being a Spark. You can't save the world if you're _dead_ , Stiles.”

“The _purpose of being a Spark_ is to do what is necessary for the good of humanity,” Stiles says, his vision blurring around the edges as blistering heat sings through his veins. “I am willing to sacrifice myself if it means saving the people I care about.”

“And I am not willing to accept such a sacrifice!” Peter shouts, making Stiles halt mid-stride and waver on his feet. “Don't spout your emissary handbook bullshit at me. I don't—” The werewolf cuts off suddenly, breathing hard into the sudden quiet of the room. “Stiles, where is your heartbeat?” He takes a step towards the young spark, but Stiles stumbles backwards. 

“Don't,” he whispers, and Peter stops, eyes wide with concern and hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Peter, you have to go.”

“What's going on?”

Peter's gaze snaps to Stiles's shaking hands as he raises them, palms facing upward. They glow like embers, becoming brighter the longer Peter stares. Smoke rises from Stiles's fingers, and he finally loses the hold on his magic. His heart drums erratically against his ribcage, and his throat closes against his next breath. 

“Peter, please,” he gasps, choking on the words as tears sting his eyes. “I don't want to hurt you.” Flames burst from him in a sudden wave of heat, crackling over his skin but not burning him. _Never burning him; only others._ He stares at his mate helplessly, shaking his head and stepping back as Peter watches him in frozen terror. The thoughts that must be running through his head; the rage of fire-laced memories. “Peter. Go.”

But he doesn't. The werewolf steps forward, again and again, slow and meticulous, until he's standing right in front of Stiles, raising trembling hands to cup the young spark's face. Stiles wills the flames to leave his mate unmarred, but he knows much of the belief has to be on Peter's end—belief that Stiles would never do anything to harm him. And as the flames lick at Peter's skin, exploring but not burning, Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and closes his eyes against the cool touch of the man's fingers on his jaw.

“I trust you, my love,” Peter whispers despite the fear in his eyes. 

Stiles feels the flames slowly diminish, die into smoldering embers before snuffing out completely. He waits until the tightness in his chest recedes before taking a deep, labored breath and holding it until his lungs feel like bursting. “I'm sorry,” he manages before Peter pulls him tight against himself, wrapping him in warmth and safety.

“Never be sorry,” Peter demands, pressing kisses to his temple as he strokes Stiles's hair. “Not to me.”

Stiles breathes and breathes against Peter's shoulder, feeling a heaviness in his body as adrenalin slips away. He pulls back just slightly until he can see the man eye to eye, running his fingers down the man's cheek, trailing his jawline, outlining his lips. “Not that I'm trying to get out of continuing our discussion,” he says, voice raspy and tone wavering, “but I think I'm going to pass out now.”

Stiles feels Peter sweep him into his arms before he is plunged into darkness.

BONUS SCENE: 

Peter jolts awake from a doze, the tinny sound of _Hungry Like the Wolf_ crackling from Stiles's phone on the nightstand making him groan. He checks to make sure Stiles is still sleeping—like the dead, it seems—and grabs the offending object before answering it.

“Nephew,” he says, sighing tiredly as he lets his head fall back against his pillow and stares at the ceiling of their bedroom. “What can I do for you?”

Derek doesn't seem surprised in the least that Peter is answering the young spark's phone. “I need to speak with Stiles.”

Peter glances at his mate again, frowning at the lines on the younger man's face. He looks pensive, even in sleep. “Is it urgent?”

The Alpha hesitates before asking, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Peter assures him, the arm he has wrapped around Stiles tightening and pulling the young man closer, “I just don't want to wake him if it isn't necessary.”

Derek grunts in his usual non-verbal fashion. “No, it's not necessary. I was just checking in. Is he all right?”

Peter runs his fingers up and down Stiles's arm, reveling in the goosebumps that rise in their wake. “He will be. After some rest.”

“And you?” 

Peter can feel the bond between him and his nephew twinge, the Alpha reaching out to make sure the line is stable and that his pack is well. He remembers feeling the same warm tug when his sister was Alpha. Derek may have started out a little shaky as their fearless leader, but he has grown into the role well. Talia would be proud of the 'wolf he has become.

“I think some rest will do me good, as well.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Derek says sincerely. “Ask Stiles to call me sometime tomorrow so I can see how he's doing. And Peter...” He pauses to make sure he has the older man's attention. “Take care of him.”

Peter huffs and quirks one corner of his mouth, his answer of, “Always, Alpha,” a promise not only to his nephew but to the young man sleeping beside him.

Peter hangs up and tosses the phone back on the nightstand, turning and curling himself against his mate. Stiles shifts and sighs in his hold, one arm wrapping around the older man and squeezing in assurance. 

“Whassat Sour Wo'f?” Stiles slurs, and Peter buries a smile into the top of the younger man's head. 

“Yes. He was just checking on you.”

Stiles releases a puff of air against Peter's collarbone. “Checking on you, too.”

“I suppose so.”

Stiles grunts and leans back until he's looking at Peter with half-lidded eyes. “Kiss me 'til I fall asleep.”

Peter gladly complies, covering the young man with his body and pressing their mouths together insistently. Stiles spreads his legs, letting the man slot between them as he wraps his arms around Peter's shoulders. Peter peppers the young man's lips with kisses, trailing down his jaw and neck until he can suck a mark into Stiles's pulse point. 

Stiles gasps and rolls his hips, both men groaning as pleasure sparks between them. Peter begins to rut against the younger man, the pace slow and agonizing and the fabric of their boxers keeping the sensations muted. Peter keeps himself propped up over the young man, using his free hand to slow the desperate jerks of Stiles's hips.

Peter shushes the younger man's frustrated whimpering with a chaste kiss. “I've got you, darling. I'll get you there, I promise.” Stiles bites his bottom lip and arches his back as Peter continues to move against him in a careful, steady rhythm. “I want to watch you come undone.”

Stiles's hands roam Peter's chest, settling in the spaces between his neck and shoulders and digging into the muscles there. His mouth falls open in a breathy moan, and his eyebrows furrow as his eyes shut tight. 

“Open your eyes, beautiful boy,” Peter begs, leaning down and running the tip of his nose along the younger man's jawline to his chin as he inhales. “Please let me see you.”

Stiles opens his eyes as Peter leans back, the honey-amber of his irises dark with lust. “Peter,” he pleads breathlessly, hands fluttering to the pillow beneath his head and clenching the fabric as Peter slides their bodies together over and over. 

“That's it,” Peter encourages, forcing himself to keep the pace steady. “So beautiful, Stiles. Seeing you like this, seeing what I do to you.”

Stiles arches beneath him, knuckles turning white as his fingers tighten on his pillowcase. His hooded eyes never leave the older man's face. “Only you, Peter,” he promises, moaning as Peter presses hard against him. “Only for you.”

The werewolf growls low in his throat, lowering his head until their lips are barely an inch apart. They pant into each others' mouths until Peter has enough sense to ask, “Are you going to come for me when I ask you to?”

The young spark gasps. “Yes! Yes, Peter, please! Please let me come.” The last word is dragged out into a desperate moan, and Peter gives his hips a few sharp thrusts. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he demands, and Stiles's back bows, his hips jerking against Peter's as he comes. His mouth drops open, releasing punched-out noises until he's spent, and then he collapses back against the bed, dazed eyes still centered on Peter as the older man ruts into the crook between Stiles's thigh and groin. He comes moments later, panting above the younger man and brushing sweaty bangs from Stiles's forehead. “All right, my love?”

Stiles hums and stretches beneath his mate. “So much for just kissing,” he murmurs, eyes closing in exhaustion.

Peter chuckles and places a row of kisses along the younger man's shoulder. “Sleep. I'll clean us up.”

Stiles makes a tired noise of affirmation, and by the time Peter returns with a warm washcloth, he is fast asleep. The older man makes quick work of stripping the boneless young spark's boxers and cleaning him before sliding back into bed and covering them both with a warm comforter, holding Stiles to him tightly and not daring to fall asleep until he's counted a hundred of his love's breaths.

**Author's Note:**

> You are truly amazing for being here. Thank you so much for reading this! I have several more fics in the works that are nearly finished or just need editing, so expect more of this delicious duo soon! 
> 
> Be safe and healthy, my loves! 💖💖💖


End file.
